


Home on the Electric Range

by thealphagate_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-20
Updated: 2006-03-20
Packaged: 2019-02-02 11:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12725460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealphagate_archivist/pseuds/thealphagate_archivist
Summary: Musings and smut.





	Home on the Electric Range

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the archivists: this story was originally archived at [The Alpha Gate](https://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Alpha_Gate), a Stargate SG-1 archive, which began migration to the AO3 in 2017 when its hosting software, eFiction, was no longer receiving support. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are this creator and it hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Alpha Gate collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/thealphagate).

"I wish I had the time to write a book."

It was an offhand comment, something to say while we waited for our dinner to microwave. Something apart from, "So how about that mass grave we uncovered back there on P7K-914?"

"Oh yeah?" Jack looked up from the fridge. The mission had taken longer than expected, as evidenced by the mouldy cheese and furry meat he excavated and tossed into the trash. "Something hot? 'Sex Wears a Boonie'?"

I snorted. "Better than 'The Man in the Knitted Cap.'" 

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with that hat." 

The microwave dinged and I took out our meals. Lasagne for me, something called a "Hungry Guy Chicken Fried Steak" for Jack. 

I set the plates on the table. Jack brought a beer and a glass of wine over, which was a nice gesture, so I didn't ask if it came from a box or a plastic bag with a spout.

"So what kind of book?" Jack asked a few minutes later, around a mouthful of whatever white substance had accompanied the chicken- fried steak.

"An archaeological text. Nothing classified," I added, poking at the lasagne. "I did some regular research once upon a time." In another life, it seemed, but all those papers no one wanted to read were crammed into a couple of boxes in my bedroom closet. It seemed like a waste not to do something with them. Now, I could even afford to publish the book myself if no one else wanted it.

"Sounds great." Jack took a mouthful of a vibrant orange substance that could have been carrots. "Why don't you do it?"

"Right." The lasagne wasn't bad, for something that had been boxed and frozen in Milwaukee, but it wasn't what I wanted. 

"Why not?"

I looked at Jack, who seemed serious. "Jack, I barely have time to keep up with the SGC paperwork as it is. There's no way I could write a book of my own." Not in a twenty-four hour day, anyway. And Jack had never expressed any interest in moving to a planet with a more convenient schedule.

"So take a sabbatical. Hammond would give you one." 

I waited for the punchline, but Jack just ate his steak and drank his beer.

"Are you serious?" I finally asked.

"Sure." Jack shrugged, like there was nothing unusual about the suggestion. "You deserve some time off."

Now I knew there was something up.

"OK, Jack, what's the deal?"

"What?" Jack moved on to the other orange substance which, according to the box, was known as "peach cobbler."

"You started it. I'm just being supportive."

"OK." I decided to change tactics. "You, ah, you do realize that if I was on sabbatical, I wouldn't be with you as much." Unless Jack took leave at the same time. 

I thought about that for a moment. The two of us, alone, together. All day, every day. For three months, or six months, or a year. I didn't have to stretch my imagination too far; I knew exactly what it would be like. For the first week or so, we'd have fun, and great sex whenever and however we wanted. After that, it would decline steadily. They'd probably find our bodies, hands around each other's throats, within two-weeks of the good-bye party.

"I did gather that, Daniel." Jack replied sarcastically, as only Jack could. "We've worked together for seven years. I think we can take a break. Anyway, you'll be here when I get home." Jack smiled widely at the thought.

Too widely.

Understanding Jack is very much like understanding a foreign language. You need to rely on clues and the occasional leap of faith.

"And I guess that idea appeals to you, huh?" I kept my voice casual, but Jack knew I was onto him. 

He tried to bluff it out. "Sure. Course, it would be especially appealing if you were in bed when I got home, maybe wearing those black boxers or, ideally, nothing at all..."

"Right." It didn't actually sound too bad, waiting for Jack to come home all tired and sweaty and looking for some comfort and two or three rounds of hot sex. Ideally. But I knew that wasn't all Jack wanted.

I waited, and a second later, he cracked. "OK. So maybe I wouldn't mind having someone to come home to, OK? It's a real pain in the ass, coming back from hell on P7-whatever-the-fuck to a fridge full of mouldy leftovers and microwave dinners."

"So you want, what, a personal chef?"

"Not just that," Jack answered, huffily. "Look at this place. It's disgusting." He looked around pointedly. Everything was in perfect order, except for a slight layer of dust. Compared to my apartment, it looked like an operating room. Not that I cared. As I frequently told Jack, very few geniuses are neat people, but a significant portion of psychopaths are.

"So you want a chef and a maid."

"No!" Jack frowned, even though it sounded exactly like that. "I want you, Daniel. I love you." Proof he was getting desperate. Usually the closest I got to that was a "You, uh, know how I feel about you, and stuff, right?" "I just sometimes think how great it'd be if I knew you were safe here."

Too late, Jack.

"Safe making you dinner and doing your laundry. You want a housewife, Jack." Then I remembered Sha're, who'd only cooked when she was socially obliged to and who was a champion at turning undergarments inside out to extend their wear time. "A 1950s housewife."

Jack did what he always did when he was cornered. He went on the offensive. "What's wrong with that? My mom's a housewife and my parents have been very happily married for fifty-two years." 

I didn't know where to begin with that statement. Fortunately, neither did Jack. There was a moment's pause while he jammed the "peach cobbler" into his mouth. I finished the last few bites of lasagne and was still hungry.

I could cook a few things, I thought, and Jack called my lamb curry recipe "Better than most of that wacky stuff of yours", but I never seemed to have time to make anything like that. 

"Look," Jack continued, before I could meander too far down that path. "I worry about you when we're in the field, and it only gets worse when shit like that"---by which he meant the non-Goa'uld related "ethnic cleansing" on P7K-914---"Comes up. So yeah, I'd feel better if you were here, and if you made me a meal or two and maybe flicked a duster around, that'd be even better."

"Well, I'm sorry, dear, but that's not going to happen."

"Fine." Jack slammed his glass down on the table, staring at me like he was under the mistaken impression that would make me drop the subject.

"You knew I wasn't Sara when we got into this Jack." And we hadn't gotten into it lightly. It had taken six years and an unbelievable amount of hassle before we even admitted to each other there might be feelings other than friendship somewhere in there. 

Jack's frown got deeper and he took his tray over to the garbage.

I regretted mentioning Sara as soon as I did it, but I wasn't about to take it back. They didn't see each other very often, but I knew Jack still thought about her. I could hardly get snitty about that. I still thought about Sha're every day.

"Sara worked longer hours than I did," Jack finally said, calmly, as he loaded the already full dishwasher. "I always cooked."

He walked away, leaving me to wonder how Jack being a jerk always ended up with me feeling guilty.

* * *

I went to the living room, turned on the TV and waited for Jack to join me. When he didn't, I changed the channel from a documentary on Nefertiti I'd seen twice before to an inane sitcom. Not even the sound of canned laughter lured Jack into the room.

Finally, I went to find him. He was lying on his bed with a book in his hand. I hovered in the doorway, then decided that, as the person who had brought up a former wife first, I was obliged to make the first conciliatory gesture.

"What are you reading?"

Jack clearly wasn't interested in gestures. "Nothing that would interest you."

I clenched my teeth and forced myself to be the adult. "Try me."

"No thanks."

I leaned over to read the cover. Jack, petty to the end, slammed the book shut and put it face down on the bedside table. 

"For God's sake, Jack, I'm trying to be interested."

"Well, thank you for the attempt. I'm sure it was real big of you."

I knew from experience this could go on all night and then some, and I was too tired to fight right now. I was about to tell Jack I was heading home when it struck me that was what this was all about. Home.

I'd always had a home, of one kind of another. My parents, the foster parents I'd ended up with, the ones whose picture still hung in my apartment, academia, Abydos, the SGC, even Oma Desala had cared for me, and had been home to me, at least for a while. With Jack, though, secrecy was too important for that kind of thing. We spent a few nights a week together, but the rest of the time we put more effort into hiding our relationship than we did into the relationship itself. That was what Jack meant. He wanted to come home to me, because he wanted to give me what he couldn't and so many other people in my life had. 

If I said any of that to Jack, I knew he would deny it, but I also knew it was true. After so many years of putting our lives in each other's hands, I knew Jack better than I'd known anyone, and that meant knowing when it was best to suppress my natural instincts and just stop talking.

I pulled off my shirt and tossed it onto the floor. Jack tried to glance away, but since he'd so ostentatiously put down his book, he had nowhere to look.

I ran my hands over my chest, hoping I didn't appear as self- conscious as I felt, then reached for my fly. Jack's Adam's apple moved, which I took as a good sign.

The atmosphere was slightly dented when I tripped getting out of my pants, but Jack's rapid breathing told me he didn't mind. His body certainly wasn't complaining when I slid into bed beside him, although I did get a peevish, "Daniel..."

I cut him off, my tongue sliding into his mouth. He fought against it for a moment, then gave in, as he always did. And as I always did with him. We fit together perfectly. It was only when we started talking to each other that things fell apart.

I kissed Jack for a moment, then raised my hands to his shoulders. He felt warm beneath his T-shirt, and, just like that, a wave of blood rushed down to my groin. 

Jack seemed to be on the same wavelength. He took his tongue out of my mouth and kissed me on the nose. As I was pondering the relative sexiness of that, he stripped out of his T-shirt and sweatpants and rubbed against me.

On Abydos, there was a saying: "Even a mastage has a talented tongue." Which was a fairly disturbing way of saying there's no such thing as bad sex.

It may have been true but, as I told a horrified Jack after our first time together, he was much better than a mastage. I'd expected him to be uptight, inexperienced and maybe a little disgusted despite himself to be sexually involved with a man. To be sexually involved with me. Instead, Jack was the one who brought out the handcuffs, the chocolate and the flavoured condoms barely a week into our relationship.

But neither of us were in the mood for toys tonight. Jack didn't even wiggle his eyebrows or make a comment about mastages as I slid downward and took his cock into my mouth.

He didn't last long, but I didn't mind. My jaw was already starting to ache by the time his hand tightened in my hair and he grunted a barely audible, "Daniel." I swallowed hard nad fast, then climbed back up the bed. Jack looked woozily into my eyes, his hand going automatically to my erection.

"I don't think many 1950s wives knew that trick," he murmured into my ear. 

I laughed and decided it wasn't the time to make any kind of reference to his mother. 

Jack jerked me off slowly and smoothly, then kissed me as I recovered. When we were both back to semi-coherence, I sighed and steeled myself for the inevitable conversation.

"Jack," I said, because that seemed as good a way as any to begin a speech about knowing we couldn't make a home together, not yet anyway, and that I really didn't mind. This was a million times better than what I'd had with Jack---with anyone---a year ago, and I was very satisfied. I just wished he could see that.

"Daniel," Jack replied, resting his hand on my neck. "Don't go on leave."

"I...what? Why?" I hadn't been considering it, but it seemed like what Jack had wanted. 

"Because I'm a selfish bastard and I'd miss you too much." He shrugged. "I can put up with microwave meals and dirty laundry if it means having you with me."

I went from touched to irritated in about three point five seconds. "Gee, thanks, Jack."

Jack smiled. "Besides, you'd be a sucky housewife."

I had to say it before he did. "You don't seem to have a problem with my sucking."

Jack looked thoughtful, which, for Jack, was a very unusual expression. "Yeah," he finally determined, "I guess I'll keep you." He nuzzled my neck and I couldn't summon the energy to be outraged. I'd get him back sometime.

"Hey Daniel," he murmured, just as I was about to doze off. "Know that lamb curry of yours? Think you might want to make it this weekend?"

"I don't know. What's in it for me?"

"Wait and see." That sounded promising enough, until he added, "And if it's really good, I'll wear my frilly apron and oven mitts."


End file.
